


the more that i know you (the more i want to)

by earnmysong



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Mexican Actor RPF, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016) RPF, Star Wars RPF
Genre: Awards Season, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9314849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earnmysong/pseuds/earnmysong
Summary: [S]he steps onto the red carpet and texts Diego as unobtrusively as she can, using the skirt of her dress to shield her activities from the public eye.// Felicity, DIego, and a night at the Golden Globes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In case this needs to be mentioned: LIESSSS. These are lies my brain told me that I enjoyed enough to write down. If anyone else appreciates my special brand of weird: More power to both of us, and thank you for humoring me!
> 
> Title taken from Hailee Steinfeld's _Starving_.

\---

The logic that leads Felicity to conclude that being _the mistress of ceremonies_ headlining _Saturday Night Live_ ’s triumphant return from winter hiatus will be _truly spectacular, an ace idea_ , is admittedly flawed. The truth of this has not diminished in the face of the exhaustive hindsight-informed reflection she’s carried out over the last few months, the space between proposed resumé-builder and impending reality condensing further with each day that passes. (The decision carries more weight now than it ever promised to before.) 

(By the way, yes, that was the exact phrasing she used in her acceptance of the offer, unnecessarily pretentious, extremely British, and overly eager, all in the same breath. Her faculties had very clearly gone on holiday for a bit.)

This month has been, and will continue to be, a caricature of what many assumed it would, and should, have been. Apprehension and anxiety have irrevocably overshadowed the lighthearted predictions she and, she’s only hazarding a guess here, a great many other people in the world, made over their early-release festive lattes. 

Her episode of _Saturday Night Live_ will surely put forth a valiant effort at easing the whole of America (as well as a large cross-section of international areas other than the United States) into 2017 as gently as can be managed and, though her mind has taken to concocting tales of an almost universal drop in the blood pressure of the general public in response to two hours of television viewing, different, much more comedic, people take the helm in such scenarios. Felicity and this particular opportunity are not exactly the best fit regardless, but even more so because, of the political landscape of the day.

She scans the official ‘Welcome to SNL’ email that’s just arrived in her inbox from the comfort of her hired car. Using the last few seconds that remain before she has to make her exit as economically as she can, she screenshots call times (of both the flexible and multiple-hour later, much more stringent, varieties) and guidelines on how best to fill the improv gaps left in her monologue, puts the lot in a secluded portion of her phone, one which she almost hopes to forget come morning. That done, she steps onto the red carpet and texts Diego as unobtrusively as she can, using the skirt of her dress to shield her activities from the public eye.

 _This is what comes of allowing me communication while I’m out of my head. I trusted that you would be strong enough to withstand my coercive nature!_ She messages him her pictures, unyielding proof that consequences follow every action, and adds a single-tear face for good measure.

 _I was, and am still, very strong. You have no effect on me at all, so don’t worry. Fiona is a completely different story, however. She insisted that I stop making her LiCi sad, and what can I say, my daughter can convince me to do almost anything she wants._ Felicity can picture the self-deprecating shrug that accompanies his explanation perfectly, having been on the receiving end of countless near-identical gestures during their tenure as scene partners. _Where are you?_

_Yes, well, you’ve been granted a reprieve by virtue of my not recalling specifics about a day that ran rampant with agony after I saw to it that you were made temporary guardian of every mobile device I’ve ever owned in my life. The littlest Luna's concern for my emotional stability in that moment allows me to overlook the fact that you can never seem to listen to me. You should know, though, that I will be continually disappointed in your lack of effective stewardship until, at the very least, summer. Also: I just arrived._

_Then your forgiveness will be a very nice half-birthday present._ Undulating bubbles appear on her phone screen, then: _Espera, I’m finding you…_

She responds with a SnapChat, thirty seconds of herself, flower crown firmly in place, tapping an imaginary watch on her wrist impatiently. ‘We don’t have all day,’ she captions, flicking a finger across the glass to send. 

He materializes a heartbeat later, Gael in tow and tie just off-center enough that her, “Starting early, gentlemen? You’re not permitted to be sloshed before half past six at these soirées, Diego. You have to keep things classy, yeah? When’s the last time you made the list?” is a logical inference.

“Is it really noticeable?” He turns back to his carpool companion, aghast, launches into a rather lengthy harangue in Spanish, the gist of which, from the bits she manages to piece together, amounts to: _I told you your idea was terrible. We have to be presentable and represent ourselves well tonight! We could’ve waited until we found our seats to start drinking._

Felicity steps toward him, Gael throwing up his hands and exasperatedly informing her as she does that Diego’s idea of drinking heavily has, at some point in the last two hours, transformed into having one beer in the parking lot. Biting her lip to quell her laughter, she passes the look off as concentration devoted to fixing his tie. “Hey, hey, take it easy. One pint isn’t going to do you in.” She pauses, tilting her head and considering him a moment. “I must be available the next time you’re nominated for an award. I wouldn’t miss that experience for anything.”

Retrieving her phone from its spot on the carpet, positioned carefully between her feet (adjusting neckwear necessitates two-handed dexterity, after all), she reaches into the case’s convenient back compartment, extracts two white discs from among the collection of plastic cards. “Here,” she offers, pouring them into his hand.

He examines the gift critically. “Medication?” he asks, gaping at her in astonishment.

“Jesus, no. What do you take me for?!” she shouts, loud enough that Andrew, off in a distant corner, stops conferring with Ryan Reynolds long enough to glance in her direction. After pausing to smile and placate her friend, she reminds herself to lower the volume and turns back to find Diego tracking her movements, as if he’s verifying that she’s okay, that she hasn’t gone ‘round the bend. “Medication,” she scoffs in disbelief. (She’s certainly not the person who needs assistance.)

She plucks one of the offending objects from his palm, holding the tiny circle aloft. “They’re mints!” Before he has an opportunity to answer, she adds, “Las mentas? Si?”

Understanding plays across his face first, then a smile follows and, in the next breath, the two of them are laughing so hard, it’s miraculous that they remain upright.

“Lo siento…lo siento,” he manages when air returns to his lungs. “I thought you’d kept the pills the hospital gave you after the tower accident.”

(This assumption is not entirely outlandish. Straining who actually remembers how many muscles in her back in the middle of Canary Wharf-turned-Scarif security complex after coming off the makeshift data column the wrong way wasn’t a red-letter day in the filming history of _Rogue One_. She was all but incoherent for the majority, thanks to the very tablets Diego just referenced. Hence the reason for briefly entrusting him with custody of many of her belongings.

What had that landed her with? A weekend excursion to New York, hosting bloody _Saturday Night Live_.)

“Oh, sure, because I regularly hoard narcotics that are well-past expired. Not only that, I also distribute to my friends so they can join in the fun.” 

“You bring coffee or tea for everyone you see before eight in the morning. I took the next logical step.” 

She gasps and staggers backward as through she’s been stabbed, ignores the fact that her mind can indeed reproduce his shrug with startling accuracy. “You know that stems from self-preservation, not generosity, so piss off.” He offers her his arm, a détente as well as a reminder that they have places to be; she slides her hand through the space he’s left easily. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t subscribe to the reasoning of a man who’d like to perform experiments with Jabba the Hut. There’s a peg or two loose in there somewhere. Speaking of,” she whirls, taking him with her, “you’ve abandoned Gael. Or, quite possibly, he’s abandoned you.”

“He found Lola,” Diego informs her, reaching over her head and pointing off to her right. “We weren’t giving him enough attention. Plus, he’s probably angry that I berated him,” he laughs. “Let’s go.”

They don’t make it inside for another twenty minutes, Felicity hindering their progress by stopping first when she’s distracted by the miniature bottles of Cristal ( _Did you hear nothing of my lecture earlier?_ he admonishes / _It was in another language and I comport myself beautifully, thank you,_ she hedges, waving him away), then when she finds it important to stop for a photo ( _I see Madame Tussaud’s figures in our future and I’m selecting a pose sooner rather than later_. She may or may not have downed half of her drink just prior to this flash of inspiration.)

She tries, unsuccessfully, to convince him to join her. He lets the camera click five times, walks through the middle of the sixth shot, grabs her hand, and ushers her through the entrance to the hotel, all the way to their table.


End file.
